I like when night falls
in fog
obscuring the naughty bits
the ugliness best forgotten–
last night
it fell like bricks
bruising and
unapologetic
I try to write in the dark
where my thoughts
are most honest
I grieve lately
choking on the words
to tell
how you keep me
in the dark
The evening beguiles–it tempts
me to forget sleep
forget that my health
will fail without sweet rest
it draws me close to dance with the moon
pirouettes in the shadows–playing tag
as clouds roll in front of his face. The night
wants me to stay awake
the morning upturns me
the edges of stratus clouds
the colors of harvest
streaks of apricot
and cranberry like her lips
we were never intended
for longevity and constancy
our weave was not threaded
with such riches
each uncharted day we had
but when I rise
after sleep eludes me
to watch the splitting of the sky
and the day’s first rays
my feet are reminded
that was not my path to walk
grief came here
and I fed it poetry
every word
a great flood of recollection
so many false shops
the blind side of
the housewife
flitting sideways
with swollen eyes
aggressive fragrances
bursting above
the smell of summer
when his ghosts came home
blue verses
called from everywhere
you have forgotten
to sing
I am not a vandal
not a thief, I took nothing
that was not freely given
tip-toeing through the pages
creeping like a bandit
then back out
it wasn’t luck
that brought us together
or fate
and it might have been God
doing that
but so far I have received
no official word
all I know for sure
all I remember
are fireworks going off
food tasting better
and all the senses
heightened
and if you go
there will be no more
explosions
my meals plain
and without
any spice
breeze through the screen
leaves the heat out on the road
the haze drifted off
yesterday’s humid coma
fighting it out with the clouds
are we allegory
are we poem
are we become
the monster we despised
when we were kids
under the bed
dogging us
saying, ‘hey man–
when you gonna’
my brother says
I over-analyze
the situation
that people are simpler
than all that
blood and ache
and resistance
but I say the birds
still sing to one another
we are merely
listening in
we stop our work to bitch about
the weather, the wife, our breakfast,
the economy, him, her, they, the boss, the brother-in-law,
his mother and his kid, his trash can without a lid
blowing bad news into your backyard, and into
your wife’s window, ruffling her hair
night offers cool and neon
the flicker of a sputtering light
company with my dreams and me
struggling to get at the meaning
of what was said hastily
that light spits out its message
that it has not left me yet
